When he had finished his tea, Father O’Gorman slipped out, knowing that no one would miss him.
He started to walk towards the village.
He wished he had never come here to this part of the country. He was ashamed that he was still ringing his mother every night out of loneliness and anxiety. He was just the curate, thank God, but it was bad enough. Parishioners much older than him came to him for advice about all sorts of matters that were alien to him. He had never had a girlfriend, or learned to drive, or even held a normal job. The parish priest kept telling him that he had to toughen up. The old man had spent many years in Africa and many more in a crime-and-drug-ridden city and he had little tolerance for weakness of any kind. Father O’Gorman, who still felt like Ben and not like Father anything, had enjoyed his studies very much, but was feeling that parish work might not be right for him. Perhaps he should enquire about a post in the seminary?
He took his missal out of the pocket of his soutane. The missal was worn and bent. When he felt anxious, it helped him to work it between his hands, rubbing the leather, ruffling the pages. He did that now as he walked, looking out at the bleak sea and the crumbling sea stacks standing between the island and safety.
He reached a bend in the road and stopped, trying to remember something. It was there, just out of reach. Quite maddening. He was sure it was important. He walked on. He hoped the undertaker would hurry along.
He found the ground under his feet quite springy. Looking down in surprise, he found that he was walking on the grass between the road and the edge of the cliff. He certainly did not want to go that way, especially as he was a little afraid of heights.
He turned around and headed back the way he had come. When he reached the pub, the lights had been put on and there was no sign of the undertaker, although the hearse was still there, shining and empty.
Father O’Gorman, who still thought of himself as Ben, slipped past the crowded pub, keeping out of the circle of light. Once away from the pub, he got back on the road and made better progress. Night hadn’t fallen yet but the sky was a peculiar bruised blue like an oncoming storm.
He whistled a little to himself and felt better. The missal went back in his pocket and he began to walk with a little more confidence, not caring that the bottom of his soutane was wet from the grass and grimy from the road. He didn’t go towards the graveyard. It was spooky there, another thing he couldn’t admit to anyone. Ben didn’t want to deal with spooky things. He didn’t want to deal with the mess people made of their lives either.
His favourite thing in the whole world was sitting in a college library where the silence was like that in a church, but with books and papers all around him. He loved to gather the research and consider it for hours in the changing light until he had a good grasp of the material and could write his own paper. Doctrine, canon law, the history of the Church. Those were the matters that were precious to him.
He stopped, frowning. That was it. That was why he was so unhappy. He had a vocation, but this wasn’t it. He wanted silence and scholarship. He should have joined a closed order where he could sink into old texts until it felt like he was made of paper and ink himself.
There was a big house ahead. Somehow, wrapped up in his thoughts he had gone too far, and he was walking away from the harbour, deeper into the island. It gave him the willies.
He turned sharply, about to hurry back, to pick up the skirts of his soutane and run if he had to. What time would the ferry go? Would they wait for him?
There was a girl standing in his way.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Excuse me.’
She just looked at him and didn’t move. Girls made him nervous but this one was different. She looked sharp somehow. A word he had never said out loud came to him. Predatory. That’s what she looked like. He tried to edge past her, but she turned with him and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. He wasn’t attracted to girls. Some of the boys at school had said that he was gay, but it wasn’t that. Those things just didn’t matter to him. He never thought about s.e.x. at all, although it seemed to be all anyone else thought about or talked about in the confessional.
And yet, here was this girl. He felt an unfamiliar sensation in his stomach. A flutter not unlike fear, but not unpleasant. It was her eyes, he thought. There was a look in her eyes he had never seen in a person before. Her silent study of him reminded him of something he had seen in a nature documentary. Silent, unblinking intensity. A deep consideration of him. He felt more exposed than he ever had during his training, during long bouts of confession in which he had struggled to think of sins. Bad thoughts, cursing, pride. In the end, he had made things up, sins they seemed to want to hear, to cleanse him of.
But this odd girl was cutting through to the heart of him. He felt a strange urge that he hadn’t the strength to dismiss, because he had never had to learn that skill. Instead, he obeyed it. He flung his arms wide and looked up to the night sky, opening himself up, heart and soul, to whatever she wanted to do to him.
Seventeen
‘Denn die Todten reiten Schnell.’
(For the dead ride fast)
Gottfried August Bürger, ‘Lenore’, 1774
After the funeral, Lia and Ed wandered back to the village. It was deserted. Even doors that usually stood open were firmly closed. A peculiar bruised light was creeping shadowy fingers over the houses.
Lia sat on the harbour wall, a place that was starting to feel like hers, and Ed sat beside her, almost touching her thigh, but not quite. She wished he would.
They had been silent on the walk to the harbour, the unpleasant atmosphere of the day still gripping them.
Finally, Ed sighed and some of the cold tension left him. He leaned closer and slung a companionable arm around her shoulders. Lia felt a little better.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Lia said, ‘but I could really use a hug.’
He responded immediately, wrapping her into a warm embrace.
‘I wanted one too, but I was nervous,’ he said into her hair.
She laughed lightly. ‘Me too.’
He drew back and smiled at her. He took her hand in his and brought it to his chest. He was gazing past her, at the Chimneys, but he absentmindedly rubbed her hand with his thumb, held against his shirt. He had his jacket zip halfway down again.
They talked over the events of the day, agreeing that there had definitely been some peculiar undercurrents.
‘Ed, what is going on? Remember what Rose said – about there being something hidden, something secret? I’m beginning to think she was right.’
Ed shook his head, but Lia thought she saw a cloud cross his face. It made her realise how dark it had become. With the realisation, a deep shiver ran through her.
‘Ed,’ she said, ‘I think we should go home. It feels weird out here.’
She hopped off the wall and together they looked out to sea. The water and sky were a dark ominous grey. Behind them, the wide street that formed a sort of square was half in shadows, half in light, from the warm shards escaping improperly drawn curtains. Lia saw the blue flicker of a TV. She felt another shiver, this time of loneliness. She was suddenly aware of herself, standing with a boy she loved, but barely knew, in a remote village surrounded by steep cliffs and treacherous waters, thousands of miles from home with darkness falling way too early.
‘Ed, I’m scared.’
‘Come on, let’s get back to the pub,’ he said.
They started walking. Lia felt a building tension inside her, an almost irresistible urge to run.
‘Ed,’ she said, in a whisper.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is ... is there anyone behind us?’
His hand tightened on hers before he threw a sharp look over his shoulder, then walked faster.
The tension sharpened inside her. It hurt her chest to breathe.
‘Ed?’
‘Lia, don’t look. Just keep walking.’
She
knew at once that he shouldn’t have said it. The urge to turn was impossible to resist. Before she did, however, she heard whoever (whatever) it was close the distance. The footsteps sounded like high heels, clicking on the flat old cobblestones of the village road. She turned, a scream rising to her throat. Ed pulled her sharply sideways, hurting her arm.
It swept over them, a hazy white like a clouded moon. Lia could smell it. It reminded her of snowy days in Central Park, a deadly cold that was lovely for those with warm clothes and places to go before the night fell.
A trail of lace and feathers moved across her face, making it hard to see and breathe. She clung to Ed’s hand, briefly blind. Then his hand was gone and she was alone.
‘Ed!’ she screamed.
Then she could see again. Ed was there, staring at a girl dressed in a white gown. Lia had never seen anyone more beautiful. The girl was slender, with a perfect figure. Her face was lovely, her eyes golden. Whatever light there was seemed drawn to her, so that she was the only bright thing in a world of darkness. She tilted her head and looked first at Ed, then at Lia. Then she smiled and Lia saw that while she was still beautiful, she was also terrible.
Lia felt her bladder wanting to let go. All the little hairs on her body were stiff. A dog howled from someone’s back garden and the sound was muffled, impossibly distant.
Ed put out his hand and groped for her. She grabbed him and stood close, even though it meant taking a step closer to the girl.
Again, the girl tilted her head, this time to look at their joined hands. She held out her own hand, long white fingers tipped with sharp nails. Lia felt Ed move, as though to go to her. She yanked his arm, making him look at her.
A soft sound made her look back but the girl was gone. At once, the night was not as dark, as though she had released the light to return to its proper place. There was no sign left of her except for a single white feather which had fallen from her dress.
Lia caught movement from the corner of her eye.
Rose shut the door of her house and walked towards them. Together they waited for her to reach them.
Up close, Lia saw that her face was ravaged, tired and wet from crying.
‘Rose?’ Lia said. ‘Are you OK? Where are you going?’
Rose’s eyes flicked beyond Lia.
‘Rose, you’re not thinking of going to the Hall again, are you?’ Lia asked urgently.
But Rose didn’t seem to be listening. She nodded aimlessly and walked around Lia.
Lia shook her head. ‘No, no, Rose, you can’t go there. Let’s go to the pub and get you a hot cup of tea or a hot whiskey. It’s too cold out here, right, Ed?’
But Rose ignored her and walked on, slow but avid, a dark-eyed dove watching the hunting owl.
‘Mam!’
Becky was hurrying towards them.
Rose turned around and terror animated her face.
‘Becky, get inside! Go back to the baby! It’s not safe!’
‘Come with me, Mam, you shouldn’t be out here either,’ Becky said.
The fear in Rose’s face was reflected in her daughter’s. The two women stood, grasping each other’s arms.
‘We should all get inside,’ said Lia. ‘We saw someone …’ Beautiful, she had almost said. Someone beautiful.
Mother and daughter looked at her as though they hadn’t seen her or Ed up to then.
‘Lia is right,’ Ed said. ‘Let’s go the Robin’s Rest. Everyone is there.’
‘You go, Becky,’ Rose said. ‘Where’s Matt? Is he at home with the baby?’
‘Yes, but I’m not going anywhere without you, Mam.’
Ed let go of Lia’s hand. ‘Becky – Mrs. Tierney – for God’s sake, stop talking about it and come with us!’
Come with us …
As his words died away, stillness fell over the night. Something was coming.
Lia heard the others gasp. She felt a wind ruffle her hair and looked up. She saw a flash of white in the dark, a passing moment, too fleeting to be identified, but the urge to flee and hide became too strong to resist. She ran.
Ed caught up with her, his long legs covering more ground. He grabbed her around the waist and swung her to one side. A strong force hit them and knocked them to the ground. Lia heard a scream.
Rose and Becky were standing under the last street light of the village, clutching each other. A movement too fast to see made Lia’s eyes flicker. She blinked hard and saw the girl with the feathers and lace standing in the pool of light with the two women.
‘What are you?’ Becky’s voice was almost a scream.
The girl moved towards her, her focus absolute.
Ed scrambled to his feet but before he could take more than a step forward, Rose shoved her daughter behind her and met the attack herself. For a moment, all Lia could see was flashing white, and a glimpse of Rose’s furious face, red with anger and effort, ravaged by grief and horror, human in all its aspects, against the cold perfection of the girl. When all that flashing white was joined by a vivid splash of scarlet, all the breath left Lia’s body as though she had been hit hard in the chest.
Becky’s scream split the night. The unforgiving light, too strong to be emanating just from the lamp, showed every grim detail.
The girl was holding Rose’s body over her arm, slight as she was. Rose was bent backwards and her despairing upside-down face seemed to be staring at Lia.
‘Lia, get to the pub!’
The sound of Ed’s voice was a shock.
Lia shook herself, feeling her stomach roll.
Ed ran towards the terrible tableau, shouting. The girl dropped Rose and turned. She was smiling.
Ed veered at the last moment and took off through the deserted village. Lia bit her lip to prevent herself from screaming after him. The girl was moving now, although not fast. Lia bolted for the lamppost where Becky was kneeling beside her mother. There was another flash of white and the girl was gone out of sight, following Ed’s headlong flight.
‘Becky, is she OK?’
Becky shook her head. She was holding her mother’s hand.
‘Rose?’ Lia said.
The older woman’s free hand was pressed to her neck, but blood had seeped through and settled in her knuckles and the dry patches on her skin. Her shoulder was soaked black with blood.
‘Help me up,’ she said, her voice small.
Between them, Lia and Becky got Rose to her feet and, one on each side of her, they started for the pub.
They had a long nervous period in the dark, but Lia knew that the girl had other interests. Ed. Ed was out there with her. He could be hurt or ... or dead by now. She told herself to shut up. She visualised the robin on the pub sign as if this would make it materialise faster.
At last they were walking under the robin and into the pub. They got themselves through the door and went right into the lounge. The noise stopped as everyone turned to look at them. Three women, covered in dirt and blood.
Then noise flooded back in. Harry was there, and Mrs. Glenn and lots of others. Lia felt strangely outside herself. She felt a bubble-like laughter inside and squashed it. It wouldn’t just be laughter – again it would be hysteria. The others took Rose into the kitchen to deal with her injury.
Brendan was at the bar with Andrew and the two others she thought were called Evan and Jim. Those two always seemed to be together. They glanced at her as though she were the subject of conversation, which of course she no doubt was because she had burst in with an injured Rose. Yet she had the feeling that there was more to it than that. There was something odd about those two. She had noticed before how they deferred to Andrew. They seemed less like friends and more like comrades with a leader.
Lia felt as though her instincts were in charge, instead of her conscious mind. She hadn’t cared one way or another about the group of friends, even at the funeral, but now she saw how they kept together and watched. After she passed them, she could feel the weight of their staring on her back. It made her fee
l strange. She had once been followed out of the subway by a man in a nice suit, who had a strange expression. He had watched her closely on the subway and showed no signs of moving until she got up for her stop. Then he followed her out onto the street, crossing when she crossed, stopping when she did. She had taken out her phone to ring her dad but, before she could, she spotted a police officer and hurried up to him. The businessman passed them by and hailed a taxi. Lia had stammered out a question about how to get to a street she knew well, and when she got directions that she didn’t listen to, she walked fast to the corner and ran the rest of the way home. She didn’t tell her parents.
Andrew’s friends, or his men, or whatever they were, had that same expression on their faces. She couldn’t identify it, but it made her feel bad, and scared and oddly sad.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Glenn was cooing over Rose, cleaning her up. Becky was hovering anxiously.
Harry grabbed Lia by the shoulders.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Becky?’ he asked.
Becky shook her head. ‘I’m not hurt but someone please get Matt and the baby. They’re at home.’ She didn’t take her eyes off her mother.
Then Mrs. Glenn moved slightly and Lia’s stomach flipped. She was stitching Rose’s neck with a needle and thread from the open sewing kit on the table.
‘Lia,’ Harry said, gesturing to her to move away, ‘what the hell happened?’
‘Something ... someone attacked us,’ she whispered. ‘Rose was protecting Becky. And, Harry, Ed led her away from us. He’s still out there.’
‘Come out into the hall,’ Harry said and walked away, without looking to see if she was following. She glanced again at Becky and Mrs. Glenn tending to Rose before going after him.
Rose waited until Josie Glenn was finished stitching and sticking on a dressing from the pub’s first-aid kit before she said anything. She hurt all over, from deep inside. That … that thing had torn her neck and her shoulder, missing her jugular and her carotid artery. She’d be dead if it had had more time. Ed had distracted it.
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